


For What We Are About To Recieve

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Series: Unnamed Sharpe series [2]
Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: AU, April Showers Challenge 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-05
Updated: 2003-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:36:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For what we are about to recieve, may the Lord make us truly grateful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For What We Are About To Recieve

  
Sharpe lay dying by the side of the road. He knew he was near death, but cared naught. He had been captured in some small skirmish, cut off from his men, forced to submit to captivity. He had refused to give his parole and so had never been exchanged. Four years he had languished in the French dungeons before partisans had torn it down. But they hadn't noticed the small broken man stuttering in the corner, mind gone.

It had taken him a year to rebuild himself, and now for nothing. Winter, and the cold had set in. He dared not try and approach the British lines for fear of being shot outhand as a deserter. His only hope lay in locating a friendly farm, and those were few and far between in the Spanish countryside after being ravaged by years of war.

And then the frost had sent in, and with it came disease. Sharpe shivered in the snow, fever sweating from his matted hair and dripping into his eyes, half-closed from the pain of keeping them open. He was dying and, certainly worse, he was dying alone.

Sharpe was so far gone that he didn't hear the drums beating, or the boots punching the snow-laden gravel. He didn't hear the exclamation of surprise at his tattered uniform, nor the murmurs of "deserter, leave him." He didn't see the huge Irish sergeant approach, or the Riflemen that followed, or feel the strong arms lift him up like a babe and cradle him to a warm broad chest. He didn't hear Harper singing soft Irish melodies and forcefeeding him tea and whatever conoction the medics had made. He didn't notice the gaping men, the confused officers, nor the grinning Rifles.

But he knew one thing. He was home.


End file.
